legacy
by Jean Kirschstein
Summary: The window was open, again. connor/oc


**i've never written an oc story it's a miracle (thought i suppose it has to do with the fact that that's never really had an oc)**

**i'll make a more elaborate tale if it gets feedback, but i doubt it will. regardless, hurrah hurrah i have no idea what i'm doing or where i'm going with this**

* * *

She first met him at the whorehouse.

She had been visiting her sister, Elisabeth: a decent girl, pretty, demure and soft-spoken. Rather popular with her customers, and definitely not the type of woman you would find toiling away in a brothel. Bianca loved her.

They had been having a rather pleasant conversation in the parlor on one of Elisabeth's off days when he slunk in, eyes to the ground and his cheeks pink beneath dusky skin. He glanced up just long enough to catch her eye, and then he was walking to their table, his steps far lighter than they should have been. Bianca tensed on instinct- the strange young man set her on edge- but Elisabeth met him with a sweet smile and soft expression.

"How may I help you?" the brothel worker asked kindly.

"Can you tell me where to find the mistress here, ah, ma'am?" He spoke with solemnity, and he looked straight at you when he talked with an uncommon intensity. It almost made Bianca itch.

Elisabeth set her teacup down on the sitting table and rose, pushing back dark curls from her face, and Binaca rose with her, only to be waved away. Elisabeth said, "She's in the back of the shop; I can show you to her office. If you'll follow me...?"

The man dipped his head politely. "Connor." His hood was pulled back, exposing square features and soft, dark hair pulled back to the nape of his neck. A beaded braid bobbed by his temple.

"Of course, Mister Connor." Bianca glared at him as soon as Elisabeth's back was turned, and he met her eyes with a frosty frown. The woman's husky voice followed them as they walked towards a hallway at the back of the parlor.

"Watch yourself, boy."

* * *

When she met him the second time, he had come tumbling through her window.

She had just returned from a raid, and a ball had grazed her ribs. A flesh wound, but it hurt like a bitch, and so she had her shirt off and make-shift linen bandages held in her teeth. She had left the window open to air the room from the heavy smell of blood and alcohol.

Which was, apparently, a mistake. The angry shouts from below should have been should have been her first warning, followed by the clatter of boots and bullets against the brick. She had just barely looked up when a blur of white vaulted itself into her apartment.

Connor froze when he saw her, and they shared a long, shocked look. Finally, she said, dryly, "Well, close the window, I suppose. Can't be the first time you've seen a pair of diddies, eh?"

He turned and dutifully closed the window, pulling the ratty curtains for good measure, as Bianca tugged a shirt on over her bare skin. When he turned, he regarded her suspiciously and she did the same. "What were you doing that got those lobsters so riled up?"

"I was running," he replied warily, if not unnecessarily.

Bianca snorted, and stood, wincing. The action hurt, pulling at her hastily stitched wound, the muscled burning. "Aye, that you were," she said.

* * *

They met several times after that, grew more comfortable. He came to respect her and her underhand way and with each question he answered, she became more curious.

"Bianca," he said one night as they sat on the roofs and looked on the city of Boston, then paused. He had just told her a story, that of the three hunters and the Great Bear, and she was drowsy with the balmy summer air.

"Connor," she replied, teasing.

He frowned, but didn't look angry. "Where are you from?"

Bianca grew quiet, solemn and drawn. The levity brought by the piss-cheap ale from hours before had faded from her face, and she didn't speak for a moment, considering the city sprawled below her. The air was foul, as it was wont to be in any place that so people congregated.

"Around," she said finally.

But Connor wasn't satisfied with that answer. He elaborated, "But you and Elisabeth _must _have had a home before Boston, yes?"

the woman opened her mouth, as if to speak, but closed it just as quickly. Connor held his breath in the silence. "Well?" he hedged, but a sharp look stopped further inquiry.

* * *

The cool air ghosted across her skin, chilling sweat and raising goosebumps in its wake. The window was open, again.

Almost unconsciously, she curled onto her side, rolling toward Connor and burying her face against his shoulder. The man flinched, Bianca's nose cold against the bare skin, and she laughed, merely nuzzling closer.

They were quiet, but not asleep; they were both far to restless to sleep, even after their earlier activities. Connor had pulled the bed's old quilt over them but Bianca didn't move, keeping her head on his shoulder where she could feel the rise and fall of the chest, hear the beat of his heart, know that he was alive. It was reassuring.

"Wellington," she said quietly, breaking the silence.

"What?" Connor's voice was low and rough, his fingers threaded through her short hair. Bianca pressed a kiss to the warm skin beneath her cheek.

"Wellington," she repeated slowly. "North Carolina. Elisabeth and I, that's where we lived before I moved us to Boston. Mama had died in childbirth and Papa had gotten remarried. I didn't like his new wife, so I ran and took Elisabeth with me. Sometimes I wonder if he's still alive, and if he knows what became of us."

He hummed, fingers stroking down the back of her neck. Bianca sighed and clenched her hands into fists.

* * *

The funeral was a quiet affair.

It was small, with no more than twenty people gathered around an upturned plot of land on the Homestead. Bianca was twenty nine years old, unmarried, and heavy with child. Elisabeth was at her side, wracked with sobs, but the elder bore her sadness stoically as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

People gave speeches about him, about the deeds that Connor had done, but not about who he truly was. A slow, hot anger burned beneath her grief; they spoke naught of his naivety nor his kindness nor his single-minded determination. They spoke his his actions, not his motivations.

She was offered the first handful of dirt, but abstained. Instead, she remained distant as the mourners tossed hanfuls of soil into the grave. The glanced sidelong at her, wondering who she was- none of them had seen her, for Bianca had always chose to stay away from her lover's secret wars. She valued her skin far too much.

That thought alone almost wrenched a bitter laugh from her throat. All of that danger, all of those impossible tasks, and he dies by slipping off a building. An accident.

But, then, that was what everything in live boiled down to: accidents.


End file.
